"It is not about a bicycle" I tell him.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
What if Nigel Molesworth had written "The Third Policeman"?
"Is it about a bicycle?" say Sargeant Grimes. His beady eyes seme to bore through my fassade of honesti like gimblets, as if he can see the fluffy all-day-sucker in my bak pocket and the stanes of BLUD on my trowsers chiz chiz chiz. i summon up my resolution, under the bloodgeonings of chance i am bluddy but unbowed (henley 'invictus' hem hem).
"It is not about a bicycle" I tell him.
"It is not about a bicycle" I tell him.
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19 comments:
...is that a farting penny?
2D ЗОРБ.
Ok. I just read the wikipedia plot summary for "The Third Policeman".
Christ. What madness is this?
Y'know, sometimes in all my unwashed ignorance, I look at abstact art and I wonder if it's all just a joke foisted upon us by a particularly jaded and cynical "artist", perhaps painted by his two year old niece or even his dog, or perhaps nothing more than brightly tinted feces he himself flung at a canvas in some dark night of doubt and fear.
This is same. To read a novel such as this is to perpetuate the absurd joke. While critics and philosophers argue endlessly over it's meaning and it's importance, the author is laughing that screeching laugh that stands at the door between criminal madness and evil madness.
To attribute to it some kind of insight, to assign it power to explain the inexplicable is in and of itself indicative of the human need to seek order in chaos, the tragic pursuit of understanding in a world that is ultimately defined in all it's glorious randomness.
No, no. DO carry on...
You'd probably enjoy it, mikey. It's funny, and dark, and weird, and depressing, and funny. Also it has bicycles, and the footnotes explain everything you need to know about De Selby. And the inventions of Policeman MacCruiskeen are the work of genius.
I dunno, Smut, maybe so, but ultimately I feel like I'm being taken for a ride and all the other people in the car are interested in is what's in my wallet.
...ultimately I feel like I'm being taken for a ride and all the other people in the car are interested in is what's in my wallet...
maybe you should think of kittens and puppies
I tried that. The puppies took my AmEx card and went to phoenix to see some mexican punk band I'd never heard of.
I threatened to smack them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, but they just laughed and moshed. It was, frankly, hard to watch...
... maybe you should think of kittens attacking puppies...
When Flann O'Brien takes you for a ride, it's only to show you the scenic backroads of his skew-whiff brain, and NOT AT ALL because he likes taking blind corners at 80 just to hear his passengers scream.
"Sssst."
I froze. I couldn't see anything for the tall grass. The clouds scudded across the moon. In the near distance, I could hear the river. I eased up and looked left. Mr. Buttons was motioning me to move right, take a wider interval. I waved a paw and dropped down, working through the tall elephant grass. For a moment I was distracted by a moth, but it occurred to me that I need to move.
The moon was near the horizon, and as we moved nearer we could hear them. The puppies, simpering and whining in their sleep, their little paws scrabbling at the dirt in their frantic dreams of death and horror. Soon enough, they'd know death and horror.
Captain Patches had set up an operationa l command on top of a paddy dyke two hundred meters up. We all worked our way silently towards that rally point, well, except for Snowy, who stopped to bat at a toad.
As the sun started to rise, we were in position. Mr. Buttons held down the left flank and would cover our extraction. Cap'n Patches had coms with air and arty. Fluffy was in operational command of the op itself, and you won't find a harder kitten, a more cold blooded operator than Fluffy. Fluffy called us up. "I'm gonna blow the wire. You all go in hard and you go in fast. Remember, we're not here to chase mice. Do your job and withdraw the to extraction point. We're not waiting around for anyone". I just knew this was not going to go well...
I foresee a large readership for mikey's novels.
...nap time is going to be a bitch, however...
Mostly kittens and puppies...
Umm, also I'd like to point out that although Snowy probably DOES get killed in the ensuing battle, it's not simply because he batted at that toad.
First, my sympathies would likely tend to run in the direction of the mammal, so if anybody's catching a burst of AP it's the freakin toad. It's more the case that in genre you gotta have the slacker/dufus soldier, and he has to get greased, just because in this sorta story he's a staple, like an ethnicity or something, and you can't really tell the story without him.
Y'know?
...plus, toads give you warts.
...plus, toads give you warts.
You can take my bufotenin when you pry it out of my cold, warty hands!
My sister worked for David Cronenberg. I gave her The Third Policeman to give to him. Hasn't worked out yet, but the Movie In My Mind is pretty good.
Also my lovable daughter enjoys having green dots all over her face and claiming she is a toad. Also.
Any movie from Substance's mind would surely be a perfect date movie.
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